grooved aluminum and other lies about california
by Kira
Summary: Sure, California may represent Sam's own utopia, but it also could be his private hell.' The boys go hunting near Los Angeles.


A short one-shot started when I returned from Los Angeles and was feeling a bit...homesick? Whatever the case, here's a little diddy 'bout Dean and Sam.

**Grooved Aluminum (and other lies about California)  
**

"_Behind the phony tinsel of Hollywood lies the real tinsel." _

**Oscar Levant (1906 - 1972)**

The roof is nothing more than grooved aluminum.

And it leaks.

Drips plop down on the worn wood of the table, here and there, making strange connect-the-dots patterns of dirty rainwater. A finger traces them, connecting lines where there's nothing, giving meaning to arbitrary dots, finding Satanic symbols where others would find crude pictures or constellations. The other hand covers the narrow neck of a half-empty beer bottle, making sure no water drips in to ruin the drink.

You'd think a city as glamorous as Los Angeles would have better dives, at least better _looking_ dives, but Dean Winchester has quickly discovered all the pretty girls are taken or wearing layers of make-up, the beaches are cluttered with litter and dirty shells, and Hollywood, no matter how pretty it's supposed to be, is a dump.

Two blocks from Hollywood and Highland, home of the Academy Awards and all that jazz, you'll find bums and graffiti and a crime rate most tourists don't even know exists. Coffee joints are on every other corner, but so are liquor stores and chic bars. Go out far enough, away from downtown or the nice block of the town, back to the Hollywood sign that disappears after sunset, and you'll find shanty bars frequented by transients and homeless.

Another raindrop hits the table. Isn't it _not_ supposed to rain in Southern California? He distinctly remembers Sam telling him something to that effect earlier in the day, when the sky was only dotted with clouds and they had all the windows down as they cruised in on the 10. Through downtown, out to the west side, where the article said strange deaths were occurring somewhere between where Los Angeles ends and Santa Monica begins.

It's a rough line, though. Blurry. Three hours driving around, and Dean declares a break, dropping Sam off at the motor motel off Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood because it has the best rates and who _wouldn't_ want to stay in Hollywood?

Dean snorts and takes another swig of his drink. Hollywood. It's all smoke and mirrors, glamour and camera angles. A clever deception, and he's used to all kinds of those, but this one, well, it comes as a shock.

The ring of his cell phone jars Dean from ruminating on yet _another_ illusion shattered (though this one isn't as personal as some of the others). A few patrons blearily glare in his direction, his ring cutting into whatever crap song they've been listening to off the jukebox; he shrugs them off, drops a few bills on the table, and gets the _hell_ out of there.

There's a light rain falling, but the news is covering it like it's the End of Days. This, he tells the sky, is nothing. Give me thunder, lighting, the wraith of God. Prove he exists, or something _good_ is up there, because he's getting _sick_ of seeing nightmares and not wishes.

"Yeah?" he grunts into the phone. Jogs to the Impala parked on the street, checks quickly for dents, and slides into the driver's seat.

Sam's voice is tin on the other end. Fucking Valley and its crap reception. "We were in the wrong place," Sam announces. "Come get me. We've got to go to Venice."

"Geeze, Sam, I didn't know you were the romantic type. Too bad I don't have the funds for a trip to Italy."

"Venice _Beach_, Dean. Just get over here."

Sam's fairing better than Dean, though he attributes it to being back in California -- the land of dreams, especially Sam's of normality. The state represents an altered state of being for him, and he's ready to accept everything because _everything can be explained_. No mysteries here, just gossip and fresh coats of paint.

Slides out onto the road, crosses over through some slimmer, alley-like streets, and emerges onto Sunset. Palm trees line the street as far as he can see. A few drivers have their windshield wipers on full-blast. Dean casually flicks the lever every so often to clean off the sheen of rain. It's letting up, but that won't cause the drivers around him to lighten up; end of days, and God's a carefully constructed drainage system feeding into -- wait for it -- a fake river.

Sam's bouncing on his heels when Dean makes the left into the motel's courtyard, and pulls open the passenger door before he even stops. He's bottled energy and excitement, something Dean lost long ago. There's a difference, he's discovered, between anticipation and excitement. Sam would be awake on Christmas Eve because he was too excited. Dean, because he knew what was coming next.

"I can't believe I didn't see it," Sam says. "I mean, Venice is _so close_, well, not really. But there was this one summer when Jess and I -- "

He breaks off mid-sentence, his face quickly souring. He points out the windshield and directs Dean. "Take a right. I think I remember how to get there."

"Or pull out the map, dickhead," Dean retorts. Better Sam be angry with him than that _demon_ they both hate, though for different reasons. Sure, California may represent Sam's own utopia, but it also could be his private hell.

Sam complies, digging through the glove compartment full of folded and refolded maps until he finds the one marked Southern California, and unfolds it, finds where they are and where they want to go, and re-folds it down to a more manageable size.

"What time is it?" he asks. Dean taps the radio. "Thanks, Dean. Not that I'm looking at a map or anything."

"Not that I'm driving," Dean throws back. "Speaking of which, you figure that out yet?"

"Get in the left lane."

It's a bit hard to move around -- at 11:28, traffic is still streaming around them as if it were the middle of the afternoon. The Impala's hard to maneuver around so many cars, but Dean manages, and even catches the arrow.

"So," Dean says, clearing his throat, "you've been here before."

"Yeah," Sam replies. "Yeah, a few years ago. Why?"

"Just curious. It doesn't bother you?"

"What?"

The light ahead turns red. Dean motions to their surroundings -- a few run down shops on the right, a mural illustrating some of the biggest names in Hollywood on the left. "This. It's all fake, man."

"Yeah, well, so are a lot of things." Sam shrugs. "You get used to it. Plus, I wasn't really paying attention."

This gains a snicker from Dean. "Oh, really?"

"You are seriously twisted, you know that? And get into the left lane, we're merging."

The road ends in an on-ramp, and Dean guns the engine to get ahead of all the other cars jumping onto the 101 this late. There's a moderate amount of traffic, more than he's used to, and while Dean's always loved driving, he's never been particularly fond of the other cars on the road. Prefers the wide open lanes of cross-country interstates to congested inter-city highways.

You can't even drive over 70mph here.

"So, if you were paying attention to the scenery," Dean continues, "what _were_ you looking at?"

Sam just turns his head, eyebrows raised, a slight smile on his lips. "You really have to ask? If there's anything _you_ know about, its girls."

"Yes, yes, they can be hypnotic at times," Dean nods. "So, you and Jess, huh?"

Sam's sigh fills the car even with all four windows rolled down as far as they can go. There's a second when Dean thinks Sam will punch him lightly in the arm and tell him to shut up, and that's fine, really. But his curiosity's gotten the better of him since being told how _wonderful_ normal is -- Sam has stories he'll never have, feelings he'll never take a chance on, and something wants to at least _hear_ about them.

"We took a road trip," Sam explains carefully, eyes averted out the window to watch the scenery -- greenery and a few buildings -- out the right side. "Just...something to celebrate the end of the year. Friends of ours had a house down in Santa Monica."

"So you spent the time on the beach," Dean remarks. "I like the way you think, Sammy."

"Yeah, well, it was a long time ago." He squirms in his seat, giving a glance over to Dean before looking straight ahead through the windshield. "Hey, you ever wonder why they don't light up the Hollywood sign at night?"

"Huh?"

"The Hollywood sign. It's dark."

"Sam, you can't even see it from over here," Dean grumbles.

"Yeah, but still. You can't go to it anymore."

Dean shakes his head. "What's so exciting about three-story tall pieces of siding?"

He's missing something. It's the look Sam gets when his brother's being so thick-skulled that tips Dean off. Over the last few months, it's a face he's grown to resent. Can't Sam see he's _trying_?

"Okay, seriously. Explain."

"Never mind."

"Sam."

Sam twists in his seat. "Just...you can only see it in the daylight. You can't touch it, sometimes can't see it, and in the dark, it's...gone." He shakes his head. "What kind of symbol is _that_?"

"An elusive one?" Dean tries. Really _tries_. Sam speaks in riddles and metaphors, expecting everyone to pick up on what he's saying underneath; Dean prefers to not say anything at all. "Why have it at all? It's like this place is a Glamour-covered fairyland and that's just a huge advertisement of what _isn't_."

A smile spreads across Sam's face. "You get it."

"If there's something to get, then yeah, I guess." Dean frowns and reads the signs appearing overhead, directing you toward one freeway or another. "Don't like all these metaphors, though."

"Oh, really? Metaphors, that's a different word for you," Sam teases. "The 405, toward Santa Monica."

Dean complies, merging to the right, following the arrows overhead.

The 405 cuts through a pass in the mountains, a great stretch of grey cement snaking where it can. There are only four roads that lead over the mountains out of the Valley, three of which are narrow, winding passageways not designed for rush hour traffic. So the 405 sees more traffic jams than any of the other freeways, even this late.

The slow pace annoys Dean, rubs against him the wrong way, and he taps a finger on the map.

"Any other way? This traffic's a _bitch_."

Sam has little sympathy. "Welcome to California."

* * *

Forty minutes later, they're merging off onto the 10, zooming through upscale neighborhoods and western Los Angeles until the freeway meets the ocean and it's either turning north or hitting water.

Instead, they turn south on Lincoln Avenue and follow it as the neighborhoods change, good to bad to somewhat in-between, passing through Santa Monica, back through the fringe edge of Los Angeles, until they emerge in Venice Beach. It's a haven for the liberal, for teenagers and twenty-somethings looking for that place where law has no meaning and graffiti's a city-sponsored event.

And in the middle of all this, there's a monster, somewhere.

Dean loops around town in search of a free parking spot on the street -- he's still a bit apprehensive about doing so, but he's resigned to the fact that parking out here's a rare commodity. Free parking, that is. They pass a few lots as Dean circles, and just when he's about to give up, a space opens and he slides in.

The sound of music blasting on the beach drowns out the sound of the car doors shutting; Latino music mixes with rap mixes with alternative, and it's a quilt of musical sound blanketing the area. Here, the mix blends perfectly, _fits_, settling over the lights and people like a blanket.

It's a ten minute walk to the beach from the last street running parallel to the water. Beyond it, a pedestrian road is lined with shops and restaurants. Patios are crowded with college kids drinking with their friends.

Dean flicks a hat hanging, embossed with '_Venice Beach, CA_' while they walk past yet another booth selling cheep souvenirs. "Do people seriously buy this shit?"

"Jess has -- had -- a tank top," Sam answers solemnly. He's walking on the outside of the path, closer to the water than the shops, hands tucked in the pockets of his tawny hoodie.

Here, the breeze off the ocean puts a chill in the air, dropping the temperature a few degrees from that inland. Dressed in only a dress shirt and t-shirt, Dean shivers a bit and rolls down his sleeves.

"Oh," is all he says.

The bike path starts halfway down, blocked off by large k-bars or grass. Dean steps over a k-bar, followed by Sam; the path's covered in graffiti near where a group roller-skates on old, four-wheeled skates. They move gracefully despite the weight on their feet, spinning and dancing to a boom box set off to the side. Beyond them, three giant slabs of concrete rise into the air, covered in tasteful graffiti.

Nearby, the palm trees bear the same marks.

"Well, this place is colorful," Dean remarks. The path runs along the beach, and Sam stops next to the sand.

"What are we going to do?"

Dean pauses besides his brother. "Huh?"

"Dean," he whispers harshly, "there are people _everywhere_. You can't seriously think we can take down whatever's out here with -- " He waves his hand vaguely behind him. _Witnesses. Casualties. _

"We know all the victims were found by the water, right? And they had," -- Dean motions around his own neck awkwardly -- "you know, marks on their necks and stuff. I'm thinking some kind of water spirit."

"So?"

Dean leans in. "So that means we're gonna be down by the water. Hopefully, somewhere with rocks. Or something. You know, _away_ from people."

"And if not? C'mon, Dean, this is crazy. Let's wait."

"Do you seriously think a hopping place like this has a 'down time'? If it does, it's not going to be when it's dark, that's for sure. We go in and do this _now_."

Sam shakes his head, almost laughing. "You just want to hunt something. This is a challenge for you."

"Hey, what isn't?"

"Driving?" Sam tries. "Being thick-headed?"

Dean ignores him and sets off across the sand. The beach is long and deep, the trek to the ocean deceivingly long -- from the bike path, it looks a quick jaunt. After five minutes, Dean's standing halfway down, scanning back and forth with those eyes that say more than _I'm just taking in the view_. To Sam, they're as cold and hard as steel, narrowly focused.

Sam never really mastered that, so he stands off to the side and watches some children run by, laughter shrieking through the air as they chase a bird across the sand. Their parents watch with bright interest, and Sam thinks, _was dad ever like that?_

He'd ask Dean, but he's already started off towards the break wall.

The beach is shaped like two crescent moons conjoined in the middle by a break wall of jagged black rocks. They form the tips of the moons, sticking out into the ocean between the two inward curves. From the rocks runs a cement pipe with support stripes every three feet or so; it runs up the beach and disappears under the sand.

There are people on the rocks, some standing, others sitting. The sunset off the ocean is one of the most beautiful things Sam's ever seen, followed by unobstructed twilight. The sight of stars twinkling above, reflecting in the calm ocean below, reminds Sam of spending all night on the beach with Jess pointing out the constellations. He averts his eyes, focuses on the ground in front of his feet, but that only reminds him of all the sand in his clothes and Jess' new tank top and _damnit, why here?_

Shells crunch under their feet as the brothers leap up the rocks. Sometimes, the tide comes in far enough to flood the rocks; barnacles cover the lower rocks, some alive, most dead, but that doesn't stop people from exploring.

"Man, it's nice out here," Dean comments. It's the closest to philosophical Sam's heard Dean get in awhile, and he smiles.

"Yeah, really nice, isn't it?"

Dean turns to Sam, smirking. "Good vacation spot, Sam."

"Shut up."

He means it. Dean listens. They stand at the top of the rocks, twin statues facing the dark.

"Feel anything?" asks Dean. Sam feels like smacking him when he sees the expression on Dean's face; he's serious, now, more accepting of Sam's abilities, and isn't making a joke -- he _wants_ Sam's help, _needs_ it, because there's no evidence of anything out of the ordinary.

"No." Sam turns around, then returns to the ocean. "Maybe there's nothing here. I was wrong before."

"Naw. C'mon." Dean starts climbing down to the other side, past the onlookers and kids trying to catch small crabs scurrying between the rocks. Here, the surf is tough, crashing against the break wall, and precious few venture here in the daylight, even less in the dark.

"You're crazy," observes Sam, "absolutely crazy. You could get killed going down there."

"Never stopped me before."

Dean continues climbing down the side of the rocks until he can go no further. Waves crash up against him; Sam motions to a small enclave created by a taller rock set in front of a shorter one, and they squeeze in as best they can.

"Did dad ever take us to the beach?" Sam asks in the dark.

"Are you really asking me this _now_?"

"I was just wondering. I mean, those kids looked so _happy_, and I just wondered -- "

A large wave crashes into the rocks just as Dean's shoved into him. Sam loses his balance and flounders a bit before finding a hand-hold nearby.

"Dean? What the hell?"

There's a grunt, then a flash of silver -- Dean's pulled his gun. "Damnit, Sam, get over here!"

Sam pushes himself back through the enclave they'd be hiding in to the other side. The wall opens up to a small stretch of beach hidden behind the wall, the center of which is occupied by Dean and a vaguely human-shaped creature covered in green scales. Its hands and feet are webbed, but that doesn't preclude it from having sharp nails at the ends of where fingers and toes should be. Dean avoids a swipe, parrying back and forth, and that's when Sam realizes Dean isn't holding his gun.

"Dean!" Sam shouts. He takes off across the moist sand as fast as he can, diving forward to grab the gun. There's a shout above his head. Sam twists around, now lying on his back, gun held up above his head and behind him towards the creature; he tries to focus, but can't be sure he'll shoot and not hit Dean.

He flips up, kipping off the ground, and swings around, gun held steady in two hands.

The creature and Dean are locked together, slimy arms resembling tentacles sliding around Dean's neck and Sam remembers the marks on the victims: red welts and purple bruising around their snapped necks. If only they'd _stand still_; Dean's all flying limbs and kicks and punches, pushing back against the creature. A true wild child, probably as uncontrollable as a kid as he is now.

"Dean, stop moving, damnit," Sam growls, taking a step forward. Close range and all that; he wants to make sure this thing is dead with the first shot. Water creatures are dangerous, but fragile -- made from water or transparent skin, susceptible to knives and bullets and generally sharp objects.

Which _usually_ keeps them from populated areas.

Pattern means nothing at the moment. Dean tries his hardest to not move; he falls limp in the creature's grip and for a second, Sam's afraid his apprehension has cost him more than a steady shot.

He takes it as a large wave crashes onto the beach, against the rocks. The water sends him flying into the break wall, smashing him against unmoving black rocks. Silver flies into the water, Dean's gun knocked out of his hand.

The water recedes, pulled back by a strong undertow, getting ready for the next assault. Sam falls to his knees, back feeling like a huge bruise, and gasps for the air knocked from him.

"That's it?" Dean's voice is barely above a whisper and under the roar of the nighttime ocean; Sam shakes his head to clear his thoughts, and turns. Dean stands above him, neck an ugly copy of those on the autopsy photos hanging in their room.

"What?"

Another wave's headed for the break wall, smaller than before. It licks at Dean's legs and Sam's knees, sweet salt and grains of sand, and he remembers wet jeans hanging over the shower next to Jess' t-shirt.

Dean grabs Sam's arm, hauls him to his feet, and pushes him in the direction they came from. They only manage to climb a few rocks, high enough to shelter them from the rolling surf, yet low enough to keep curious eyes from wandering over their sopping, panting forms.

"You okay?" Sam asks. Dean just looks at him and rubs his neck.

He speaks in a strained whisper. "What the hell took you so long?"

"You were moving around too much, couldn't get a clear shot."

Dean rolls his eyes. Leans his head back against the rock above them giving little mind to the crunch of dead barnacles behind his head. There are more here than on the other side, desperately clinging to the rocks, unable to just _let go_ and move on to someplace better. The water barely reaches up this high; many are dead, a few are struggling, and Sam wonders if the world sees him the same way. Holding onto memories until the present fizzles and dies.

"Jess liked the beach," he says suddenly.

"Yeah?"

Sam nods. "Yeah. Loved to swim."

"Do you even know how to swim?" Dean asks.

"She taught me," Sam replies with a shrug. "Wasn't that hard."

Dean smiles and closes his eyes. "Sounds nice," he says, shifting to a more comfortable position on the rock. "Nice and normal."

It's not a dig. Sam watches the waves crash against the rocks and roll back into the unknown, stars twinkling above. It doesn't matter if their father brought them to the beach as kids. He came on his own, found his normal, and feels better for it.

He does this until Dean's wheezing grows too loud to ignore. "C'mon," Sam tells his brother, "you're loud. People are going to start to look."

"People are always looking at us," Dean retorts without opening his eyes. "Part of the gig."

Sam shakes his head. If he squints across the beach just right, he can see Jess running across the sand.

If he opens his eyes, he can see his brother fighting against a monster.

There's something about California, the way it pulls you in like the undertow and drowns you in glamour and beauty and false promises. Normal here is abnormal somewhere else, and just like the dormant Hollywood sign or streets turned into red carpets, normality is evanescent.

"Too bad we can't stay," Dean surprises him by saying. "I love the beach, even if it is all fake and stuff."

"Yeah," Sam echoes, "me, too."


End file.
